


Jaskier's Best Bad Decision

by ravenbringslight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Humor, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenbringslight/pseuds/ravenbringslight
Summary: When Jaskier decided to pretend he and Geralt were involved, he didn't anticipate the consequences.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 79
Kudos: 4384





	Jaskier's Best Bad Decision

In retrospect, Jaskier doesn’t know why he’d thought this would be a good idea.

It had seemed a bit of fun, of course, and only a bit of danger—and who didn’t like danger, especially the kind that seemed like it would be small and contained, a safe danger, just a little spice in the soup of life?

And so, when the man in the tavern had made a pass at Geralt for the third time, and Geralt had finally deigned to grace him with two words (“fuck” and “off” delivered in a growl that never failed to make Jaskier’s innards quiver just a little bit), and the man’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword, Jaskier had slid smoothly between Geralt and his would-be lover/murderer and draped himself over Geralt’s lap, and trilled, “He’s taken, actually.”

“Is he now,” the large man with the sword said flatly.

Geralt’s arm went around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier pretended it was possessive, and not Geralt trying to get leverage to throw him off. He was a little tipsy.

“He is,” Jaskier said, and turned his head to look at Geralt’s face.

The Witcher met his eyes as stonily as ever, but one corner of his mouth was upticked the slightest hair. Geralt thought this was hilarious, then. Good. He might not gut Jaskier later.

“I am,” Geralt said to his murder suitor. Then, to Jaskier, “Give us a kiss. Sweetheart.”

The last word was said with such a rasp to it that Jaskier’s toes curled inside his boots. His eyebrows tried to climb clear up his forehead. But Geralt only looked at him, that damn tiny smirk on his face, his eerie golden eyes as unreadable as ever, and Jaskier…

Well, Jaskier kissed him.

He’d meant to go for a quick peck, but Geralt’s lips were surprisingly soft for a man who spent all his time outdoors with no skincare regimen to speak of, and Jaskier found himself lingering. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel Geralt’s mouth curl against his, to feel the tip of Geralt’s hot wet tongue as it slid against the seam of his lips. And then Jaskier was a puddle, no, a vaguely human-shaped pudding, sagging against Geralt’s chest with his mind reeling while Geralt told the scary man once more to fuck off, and off the man finally fucked.

 _My man is scarier_ , Jaskier thought, and almost giggled.

Anyway, none of that is what Jaskier is regretting now.

What Jaskier is regretting now, and cursing his three-hours-ago self for, is that his tipsy little bit of dangerous fun never accounted for Geralt being _into it_ , and it certainly never accounted for the absolute magnitude of what, by his count, is the largest cock Jaskier has ever seen in his life, and it had never, ever, _ever_ accounted for exactly how far that cock is currently up his ass.

“What do you even _do_ with that thing?” Jaskier had gasped, wide-eyed, when his wandering hand found it for the first time. Geralt hadn’t answered, only grunted against his neck as Jaskier ran his hand up the impossible length of it. He could stack both hands on top of each other and an inch would still peek out. He’d done it, and it had.

Geralt can do quite a lot, as it turns out.

And, as it turns out, Jaskier can take quite a lot. He never knew he could take so much, actually. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or horrified.

They’re in the grimy room upstairs at the tavern, and Jaskier is on all fours, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and Geralt’s huge hands are running up his back, soothing him like he’s a horse as that magnificent cock fucks slowly in and out of him. His hands are so rough. Jaskier fucking loves it.

“I can’t—” Jaskier manages. He doesn’t think he can hold himself up anymore. Geralt isn’t even winded. The man’s stamina is frankly upsetting. They’ve been fucking for hours, the least he can do is pretend to be out of breath.

Geralt takes pity on him and pauses long enough to let Jaskier collapse and roll over in a sweat-soaked heap. He flings his arm over his eyes. Geralt is _looking_ at him. Will those golden eyes ever cease to be at least slightly unnerving? Jaskier is sure they can see to the very core of him, and he doesn’t want them to. He’s nervous they might not find anything there that they want to look at.

“Do you think you can come again?” Geralt asks. His voice is even rougher than usual. It’s like gravel and velvet and sex all in one, and it’s so unfairly attractive that Jaskier finds himself uncharacteristically speechless, and he only whines pathetically in reply. Geralt’s coaxed two orgasms out of him already. He didn’t even know that was possible until tonight.

“Come on,” Geralt says. Suddenly there’s hot wetness on Jaskier’s cock, and he opens his eyes to see the Witcher’s silver head between his legs, and he starts growing hard again despite himself. Geralt pulls off with a swirl of tongue. “There we go. Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaskier says, red cheeked. He knows it’s just a joke, but damn him if he won’t get _used_ to it.

“Why not?”

“I’m not...I’m not your girl, alright.”

Geralt drags his tongue up Jaskier's cock. “Of course you’re not. You’re my dandelion, blown into my life on a puff of wind.”

Geralt almost never speaks, and when he does it’s to say things like _that_. Jaskier is going to strangle him in his sleep with his lute strings to save himself from hearing any more of it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s just followed his tongue with his hand. “Can you...can you do both?”

“Both?”

“Your m-mouth—” Jaskier stutters as Geralt’s tongue does something clever, “—and your...your cock...please…”

Geralt’s golden eyes look amused. “I don’t bend like that.”

“Then your hand, anything, please—”

Geralt’s been in him so long that his absence has left Jaskier feeling so empty he could die.

“Greedy,” Geralt growls, and fucks back into him in one endless thrust.

Jaskier sees stars.

“What made you do that downstairs?” Geralt says. He puts Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, grabs onto his waist and pins him to the mattress while he fucks into him, slowly, but with vigor, making Jaskier’s back arch off the bed each time. Jaskier is losing his mind.

“You looked like...you needed...help,” Jaskier says between thrusts, his breath punched out of him each time. Geralt’s lip quirks up.

“Help?”

“Shut up,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt shuts up.

Jaskier lies back and takes it.

He takes everything Geralt is giving him. He’s made the Witcher laugh, and he’s made him bleed, and he’s made him money, loads of it, and now he’s getting a little back. He’s being paid in shaking limbs and mind-numbing orgasms and surprising flashes of tenderness. It’s a good working relationship. He has no complaints.

Geralt called him a little dandelion, and Jaskier thinks he’ll probably remember it forever.

Maybe he’ll write a song about it. One he doesn’t sing to anyone. It’ll just echo around in his silly empty head, and make him smile, and Geralt will roll his eyes at his ridiculous bard’s foolishness, mooning around smiling at nothing all the time.

“Nnng,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s spit-slick hand is on his cock. That means Geralt isn’t pinning him quite so thoroughly anymore, and Jaskier has always been one to take opportunities when they present themselves; he twists and shimmies until he manages to get Geralt’s cock hitting that one glorious spot inside of him. “ _Nnng_ ,” he says again, more emphatically.

“You can do it,” Geralt coaxes, tugging at his cock. He’s talking to him like he would to Roach, and Jaskier fights to contain a giggle. He doesn’t have to fight too hard, because Geralt gives him a good one, a thrust he feels all the way up to into his throat, and Jaskier bucks into his fist, and then he’s coming, somehow, again, a pitiful little trickle that in no way matches the strength of the light show going on inside his body, in his chest, his head.

Geralt crushes them together afterwards and lets himself go.

Jaskier does finally giggle, and holds onto Geralt’s shoulders for dear life, and rides it out, moaning like a cat in heat. His throat hurts. His everything hurts. Everything is amazing, and everything hurts, and Jaskier can’t wait to do this all over again sometime.

When Geralt finally spills, he pulls out and pumps into his fist once and then leans, shuddering, over Jaskier, spurt after spurt painting him in creamy white from neck to knee.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasps.

“Fuck,” Geralt agrees.

*

They ride out in the morning. Jaskier takes one look at Roach’s saddle and the throb in his ass compels him to walk and be thankful for having two good legs.

"What are you humming?" Geralt asks later.

Jaskier realizes he's smiling.

"Nothing," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter.com/thunderingraven](http://twitter.com/thunderingraven)


End file.
